


In The Dim Grey Light

by Once_More_With_Feeling



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Male-Female Friendship, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 07:14:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7925494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Once_More_With_Feeling/pseuds/Once_More_With_Feeling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My take on the events that followed Thomas' suicide attempt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Don't Go

**Author's Note:**

> I know this is written rather late in the game, but I needed to write what I think happened to Thomas after his suicide attempt. I didn't mind the way Julian Fellowes wrote this story, I just wanted to see more. This took a while to write, because I had SO MANY ideas... These, I think, are my best ones, and I think they make a pretty cohesive story, that fits with what we saw on screen. Maybe now I've written it out, I can get the poor baby out of my head... Do enjoy.

"Here goes," Andy said, as the three lifted Thomas' body from the bath tub, which was no easy task. Their efforts felt clumsy to Miss Baxter, and she worried that they were hurting him.

"Wait, stop," she said, and they paused in the middle of the bathroom. She began to lower his feet to the floor, and Andy and Mrs. Hughes followed suit.

"What is it?" asked Mrs. Hughes, as she was eager to get Thomas into his bed, where he would be warm and safe, at least for the time being.

"Shouldn't we change his clothes and dry him in here?" Miss Baxter asked. "So we don't get his bed linens wet?"

"I suppose you're right about that," Mrs. Hughes answered, and the three lowered him onto the floor. "I'll just nip into his room, then, and find some pajamas. You two start undressing him." And with that she slipped out the door, closing it behind her.

Andy began to tug at Thomas's undershirt, but the wet fabric clung to his skin, and it seemed an impossible task. "We'll never get it off like this," he said. It wasn't an insurmountable problem--the shirt, that is--but the task seemed to fill Andy with panic once again. "How will we get it off?" he asked, his eyes filling with tears.

"It's alright, Andy," Miss Baxter soothed. "We can cut it off. It's ruined anyway. Have you got some scissors in your room?"

"I--I think so, yes," Andy answered.

"Good. Go and fetch them, and I'll stay with him."

Andy left the bathroom, and Miss Baxter was left for the second time with an unconscious Thomas in her care. The sight of him sprawled on the bathroom floor was somehow worse than the sight of him in the tub, and she crawled from her place by his feet to his head and shoulders. She pulled his upper half into her arms, and rested his head against her breast. She had no idea if he could hear her, but felt compelled to comfort him if she could. Why had he done it? She tried to fathom how deeply unloved he must have felt, how completely dispensable to the only family he had ever known, but found that she could not. Still, she could show him love now, couldn't she? Perhaps if she and all the others had shown him more kindness, more concern, more love... But that was not for right now. Right now she would do what she could.

"Don't go, dear one. Don't go," she whispered, as she softly stroked his damp hair. "Stay with us, my darling. We can't bear to be without you."

Did she imagine it, or did he stir? Were his eyes slightly opened? She looked intently into his face, as she was sure he had said something. She moved her ear closer to his mouth, and waited, hoping he would say it again.

"Cold," he breathed into her ear. Oh, God. Of course he was cold.

"I know you're cold, my love," she answered. She began to rub circles on his upper arm, a small attempt at warming him in any way she could. "And as soon as Andy and Mrs. Hughes come back, we'll get you dry and warm, I promise." Thomas did not answer, making her question again whether she had imagined him speaking at all.

Mrs. Hughes returned to the bathroom then, and joined Miss Baxter on the floor. Earlier she had seemed so intent on their task of getting Thomas to bed, but now she seemed willing to pause, and extend a soft touch to him as well. She reached out and smoothed his hair. "Oh, Thomas," she whispered, her eyes filled with tears that had yet to fall.

Andy entered the bathroom next, with a pair of scissors, and handed them to Miss Baxter, seemingly unsure of how to cut a shirt off of a man's body. Miss Baxter took them, and starting at his collar, cut a slit down the front, then two more down the sleeves to his elbows. The wet garment fell off of him, and Andy used a bath towel to dry Thomas' chest and arms. Miss Baxter looked at Andy expectantly, and he frowned, knowing what she wished him to do. He handed her the towel, and pulled at Thomas' trousers and underwear, pulling them past his hips and down to his ankles. Miss Baxter covered Thomas' lap with the towel as Andy finally worked the last of the wet clothes over Thomas' feet, and discarded them on the floor.

Getting dry pajama bottoms on was easier than getting wet trousers off, but not by much. When Andy had finished, Mrs. Hughes threaded Thomas' arms through the sleeves of his pajama top, while Miss Baxter held him steady.

"Let's hurry and get him into bed now," said Miss Baxter. "He told me he was cold, and I don't wonder why."

"He—he told you?" Mrs. Hughes asked, surprised.

"He did," she answered. She bit her bottom lip. "At least I think he did."

"Well," said Mrs. Hughes, as she began to button his pajama top. "For better or worse, I think that's a good sign. Now, one of us take his feet, and two of us his arms again, and let's get going."

"No, don't," Andy said. "I think I can manage. It'll be easier for everyone." He slipped one arm under Thomas' shoulders, and his other under his knees. With careful effort, he stood and lifted Thomas from the floor. He shifted the underbutler's weight in his arms and said, "You two just make sure there's no one in the hall. He'd not want anyone to see him like this."

Mrs. Hughes peeked out the bathroom door, and motioned for Andy to move while the coast was clear. Andy slipped out the door, and carried Thomas down the hall to his bed.

***

On her way to Thomas' room, Miss Baxter stopped at the linen cupboard and took two extra blankets. As she entered his bedroom, Andy laid him down on the bed, and Mrs. Hughes guided his head onto his pillow. Footsteps in the hallway alerted them to Dr. Clarkson's arrival. He entered the room, followed by Anna, with a grim expression on her face. Mrs. Hughes rose from her place by Thomas' bed, and walked to Anna's side, placing an arm around the younger woman’s shoulders. Anna did not speak, but brought her hand to her mouth, and turned her face into Mrs. Hughes shoulder.

"There, there," Mrs. Hughes said. "I'm sure he'll be alright," though she did not sound very sure at all.

"We'll see about that," Dr. Clarkson said softly to everyone in the room. He placed his bag on Thomas' night table and knelt on the floor at Thomas' right side. Miss Baxter moved to Mrs. Hughes’ place at Thomas' left side, taking his scarred hand in both of her own. She watched Dr. Clarkson's face intently as he unwound her earlier makeshift bandage from his right wrist. "Ah," he said. "It looks as if the bleeding has nearly stopped. Of course he'll still need sutures." He looked up at Miss Baxter then, and gave her a sad smile. "I believe you found him just in time," he said. He removed the needed supplies from his bag—sterile needles and thread, iodine and gauze, and rolls of white bandages. The room was silent as he carefully stitched closed the gash on Thomas' right wrist, and then wrapped the wound in clean, white strips, from his palm to his mid-forearm.

"Now, Miss Baxter, if you'll trade places with me, I'll start on his left." Miss Baxter rose from her place and came to Thomas' other side. This time she sat on his bed, and held his newly bandaged hand in her right, while smoothing his damp hair off of his forehead with her left. The doctor moved to the other side of the bed and repeated his earlier work, though the gash in Thomas' left wrist was longer and deeper than the one on his right. Thomas was right-handed, after all.

The room seemed to breathe a collective sigh of temporary relief as Dr. Clarkson carefully wrapped Thomas' left hand and wrist in the same way he had done his right. At least this part was over, and his wounds were covered. The doctor lay Thomas' arm down gently at his side, and stood from his place by the bed. He moved toward the door, and Mrs. Hughes, Anna, and Andy huddled around him, waiting for instructions. Miss Baxter stayed with Thomas, though, and pulled his blankets from the foot of his bed up to his shoulders.

"He'll be weak, and short of breath, and cold," Dr. Clarkson said grimly. "Keep him warm, and keep him calm. Try to get him to drink water if you can when he wakes. And he is not to be left alone. Not for a minute," he said. Everyone in the room nodded, though Mrs. Hughes, Anna, and Andy seemed unsure of how to manage this. Sensing their apprehension, Dr. Clarkson asked, "Is there anyone he trusts, anyone he responds well to, that could help him to stay calm?"

After several seconds of silence, Miss Baxter answered. "That would be me," she said quietly, from her place on Thomas' bed, not taking her eyes off of him. She pulled her handkerchief from her sleeve and gently dabbed away the cold sweat on his forehead.

Dr. Clarkson took a few steps toward her. "Then I think you should ask for her ladyship's permission to stay with him for now. I'm not sure how long--a few days, maybe a week. He'll need very close care, and not just for all of his physical needs. He'll need support from someone that he knows cares for him. If you're up to it, and Lord and Lady Grantham will agree, then I think that would be the best thing for Thomas."

Miss Baxter nodded slowly, but before she could speak, Mrs. Hughes did. "I'll speak to her ladyship," she said. "If you say that's what he needs, doctor, then I don't know why she wouldn't agree."

 _Agree or not_ , Miss Baxter thought to herself, _I’ll not leave him now._ Andy helped her to cover him with the two extra blankets, then made his way out of the room behind the doctor, Anna, and Mrs. Hughes. Miss Baxter found herself for the third time that day left alone with Thomas. Her eyes fixed on the steady rise and fall of his chest, she sat down on the side of his bed once more, to wait.


	2. Just breathe

Dark. Everything was dark. And yet he knew that she was there. Before he knew anything else, he knew this. The first thing he tried to think of was a time when she wasn’t there, but he found that he couldn’t.

Next he thought to try and move, but he couldn’t do that either. Perhaps he could open his eyes. As he made a great effort to do so, he felt her move next to him. Phyllis. Her hand on his face, again. Her voice in his ears.

“Thomas, my love. It’s alright, darling. You’re safe now.”

Finally. His eyes open, he could see her face in the dim light of a small oil lamp. She sat on the bed next to him, to his right.

He swallowed, wanted to speak. “I didn’t…”

“No, dear one, you didn’t,” she answered. “And thank God.”

He was silent a moment, and felt himself mustering the energy to cry. When the tears fell from his eyes and slid down his temples to his pillow, she spoke again.

“Don’t cry, my love. Don’t cry.” She wiped his tears away with her thumbs. “Please don’t cry. You’ll not be able to catch your breath if you do.”

That was true enough. For practical reasons only, he tried to stay his sobs.

“Just breathe. In and out. You just breathe, Thomas, and I’ll do the rest.”

Could he? Could he let her—or anyone—care for him that much? Did he have a choice? He had not an ounce of energy to protest. And so he surrendered. Put himself entirely in her care, and consented to do nothing but lie there in the dim grey light. For the first time in his memory, Thomas Barrow was nothing but cared for.

And so the time passed. He had no idea how long, in and out of sleep. He made no effort to move. He did not try to turn in bed. He breathed, in and out, and Miss Baxter, true to her word, did everything else.

Every hour or so, a gentle hand—usually Miss Baxter’s—lifted his head from the pillow, and a cool glass of water or a cup of tepid tea was brought to his lips. He sipped and swallowed what he could, then his head was gently laid down again. No one pestered him to eat, which was fine, because if he thought about it—and he didn’t—he would have been sure he could not. Occasionally she told him to open his mouth and she put a sugar cube—the ones from upstairs tea service—on his tongue, and she told him to let it melt there.

Every two hours, with the exception of during the night, she pulled on his shoulders and knees until he came to rest in a new position, propped in place with pillows, so that he didn’t get bed sores. Twice a day—though he was not cognizant enough of the passage of time to know that it was twice a day—she washed his face, hands, and neck with a warm cloth.

He was aware that Miss Baxter did leave him at times, however briefly. When she did, she was always replaced by Mrs. Hughes, or Anna, or Andy. Though he rarely opened his eyes, he could tell the difference among them. When Mrs. Hughes was with him, she sat in a chair next to his bed, and held his hand. Before she left him, she always leaned down and kissed his forehead, and told him that he was still her brave boy. When Anna came, she sat in the chair also, but with her hands folded in her lap. If ever he moved, she moved too, anticipating his needs and meeting them as Miss Baxter had done. When Andy watched over him, he sat on the bed, his hand resting lightly on Thomas’ knee, and cried.

After some time, he found he was able to speak, and to cry, without completely losing his breath. Even then, he spoke only to say what he needed, and that was not often. Miss Baxter seemed always to know what he needed, and had it for him, as if by magic, or mind reading.

When his head ached, she gently massaged his temples with the tips of her fingers. When it didn’t, she read to him, _The Two Gentleman of Verona_ , and _The Secret Garden_ , sweet stories he had read in his youth, of loyalty and friendship, with happy endings.

When he cried, she held him. This usually happened at night, and he knew it was night because it was dark. She usually started out on the spare bed next to him (how did that get there?), and at his first sniffle she got up, crossed the small gap between them, and lay down next to him on his bed. She pulled him into her embrace, so they lay nose to nose and forehead to forehead, and soothed him through every tear.

On one such night, a piece of his mind cleared enough that it occurred to him there might be a future in which he would get out of this bed, and do things for himself, and be expected to work again. He had to know, then. “When I’m able to get out of bed, are you going to send me away?” he asked.

She was nearly as surprised by his speaking as she was by what he asked. “Send you away? Where on earth would we send you?”

“To an asylum, I suppose,” he said, not able to look her in the eye.

“Thomas, look at me,” she said, urgency in her voice. She lifted his chin slightly so that he met her gaze. She drew several breaths before speaking, seeming to consider the weight of her words. “I love you, as though you were my own dear brother. I will never send you away. Don’t you know I couldn’t bear to be without you?” It was her turn to cry now. She smoothed his hair off of his forehead, a gesture that at this point had become a comfort to them both. It seemed impossible that she was telling the truth, but he lacked the energy to disbelieve.

“Alright,” he sighed. This seemed to satisfy her for the moment, and she turned to lie on her back. He rested his head on her shoulder, nuzzled into her neck, and fell asleep.

***

The summer sun was setting outside Thomas’ window, filling the room with an orange light. Phyllis sat on his bed next to him, rubbing circles into his back, trying to gently wake him from yet another nap.

“Thomas,” she called softly.

“Mmmm…” he half moaned, half grunted. “What?” he asked, softly.

“I wanted to tell you you’re going to have a bath tomorrow,” she answered.

A bath!?

His eyes flew open. His breathing quickened. He couldn’t imagine anything worse. Why would she do this to him, after all the kind and comforting things she had done for the last… how many days? Not to mention that she may as well have told him that tomorrow he would be learning how to fly. Surely getting out of this bed and walking down the hall and _taking a bath_ was impossible. Surely she knew that.

“But…” he started. “I… can’t.”

“You can,” she said gently but firmly. “I will help you.”

Oh, God. Was there no end to his indignity? He berated himself silently, even as he thought this. He knew she couldn’t actually be trying to rob him of the last of his dignity by seeing him naked (again), but she had to have some reason for this scheme. Curiosity got the better of him.

“But… why?” he asked, trying not to whine.

“Because you smell, my love,” she answered, a hint of a smile in her voice.

Oh. Well, in that case.

He sighed. It wasn’t until tomorrow. That was years away. He turned onto his back, and she drew his blankets up to his chin.


	3. Out of Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas has a bath.

He sat on the edge of his bed, and Miss Baxter stood in front of him. She wrapped his house coat around him, but he didn’t move. After a moment, she put his arms in the sleeves for him, and tied the belt around his waist.

“Alright,” she said. “Let’s go, then.”

She tugged at his elbow until he stood. He wavered slightly on his feet, and she put her arm around his waist, draped his arm around her own shoulders, and guided him out the door, not wanting to lose what little momentum they had built.

When they reached the bathroom door, however, he stopped. He leaned against the wall next to the door, and closed his eyes. He didn’t look at her. But with all the breath he had, he said, “I don’t want to go in there.”

She stopped. She turned to face him, and said, “I know you don’t. Of course you don’t. But it’s the only washroom we’ve got up here. And you can’t go the rest of your life without bathing.”  
His eyes remained closed, but she could see in his face that he was considering this. Possibly trying to think of a way he could actually go on living and not bathing. When he seemed to fail to come up with any sort of workable plan, he opened his eyes.

“I’ll go with you this time. You won’t be alone,” she said. “And you’ll be safe, I promise.”

He looked desperate. How difficult it must be for him, to enter that room again, and not only look at the bathtub, but fill it with water and lie in it… “I will keep you safe,” she promised again, and he nodded in resignation.

Slowly she pushed the door open and they entered the room. He cringed, but did not cry. She led him to a chair by the sink, then walked to the tub and turned on the tap. She placed the plug in the drain, and returned to his side. She took off his house coat, and hung it on a hook on the wall. She unbuttoned his pajama top, and removed it as well, tossing it to the floor to be put in the laundry later.

Now for the difficult part. She lifted his right wrist with her left hand, and loosened the end of the bandage there. She unwound it, and threw the gauze in the bin under the sink. The skin on his wrist was pink and bright, and the black sutures stood out against it. She willed her eyes to stay dry as she repeated this procedure on his left wrist. She had yet to finish undressing him, but she felt that nothing could impose more on his privacy than removing those bandages.

She helped him to stand, and they walked to the edge of the tub together.

“I’ll just… help you with your trousers,” she said. “I won’t look.” She was unsure as to whether he noticed that her eyes were closed as she pulled down his pajama bottoms and underwear, trying to give him some modicum of privacy. He stepped out of them, and into the tub. He was shaking as he lowered himself down into the water. He sat down, and hugged his knees to his chest.

She was unsure if he was making some last attempt at not allowing her to see him completely naked, or if he was simply so afraid he felt he had to draw himself into a tight ball of nerves. Either way, he would never get clean like this.

She placed her hand on the back of his head. Immediately she felt some of the tension leave him. She moved her fingers through his hair, and tried to soothe him. “It’s alright, my darling. I changed your nappies when you were a baby. Lie back and let me help you.”

He loosened his grip on his knees, and straightened his legs in front of him. She kept her hand on the nape of his neck as he relaxed and lay back in the water, resting his head on the rim of the tub.

She dipped a small flannel cloth into the warm water, and rubbed it on the bar of soap. She washed his face and neck first, then dipped the cloth again, warming it. She cleaned his arms and torso, then spent several minutes scrubbing his hands, removing the last bits of dried blood from around his finger nails. She lifted his legs one at a time, washing from his thighs down to his toes, and noticed that he winced slightly when she cleaned the soles of his feet. She looked up at his face, wondering if she had tickled him, but thought it best not to try and find out.

Her work finished, she moved from his feet back to his head, and ran her fingers through his hair. “There,” she whispered. “You’re all clean. Would you like to soak for a bit?”

He surprised her by nodding in assent, and opening his eyes to look at her. She smiled down at him, and rested her arms on the rim of the tub. Something cleared in his eyes, and he asked slowly, “What… day is it?”

“It’s Sunday, love,” she answered. Then she went on to answer his real question: “It’s been three days.”

He nodded. And then, in what was probably his first purposeful move in that amount of time, he raised his right hand from the water. Though his fingers were dripping, he placed them lightly on the side of her face, and she couldn’t help but close her eyes for a moment.

When he dropped his hand back into the water, she opened her eyes and said softly, “All finished, then?”

“Yeah,” he whispered.

“Alright. Let’s get you up and out.”

She pulled the plug from the drain, and stood. She held both of his hands as he stood and stepped over the edge of the tub and onto the floor. She quickly wrapped a towel around his waist, and he sat on the rim of the tub. She dried him with another towel, then hung it around his neck. Noticing that he was beginning to shiver, she quickly reached for his house coat and helped him into it. He stood again, and she tied the belt. Taking him by the hand, she led him back to his chair by the sink.

“Come and sit down, and I’ll give you a shave,” she said.

***

When they returned to Thomas’ room, Miss Baxter saw that Mrs. Hughes had done just as she had asked, and had the house maids bring up fresh linens for his bed. Not only that though; neatly folded on top of his bed next to the sheets was a duvet from one of the upstairs guest rooms, light blue silk over a thick downy blanket. She wondered if Mrs. Hughes had brought it herself, as a special treat for Thomas, and she smiled to herself at the thought.  
She helped him to sit in his armchair, and covered him with one of the blankets from his bed.

“I’ll just change the bed, and then you can lie down,” she said. She made quick work of removing the old linens, which still had some blood stains near the edges where his wrists had lain. Glad to be rid of them, she deposited them just outside his door for the maids, then returned to put on the fresh sheets, and cover his pillows with fresh cases.

She pulled clean pajama bottoms and an undershirt from his bureau, then quickly helped him into them. They were simple garments, of course, but she couldn’t help thinking for a moment how different it was to dress a man than a lady.

She helped him to walk the short distance from his chair to his bed, where he sat on the edge. “I nearly forgot to wrap your wrists,” she said. She reached for a roll of gauze left on his night table by Dr. Clarkson, and carefully wrapped his left wrist, then his right. Just as she finished, his door suddenly opened, and there, to her surprise, stood Mrs. Patmore, holding a tray with a tureen and ladle, as well as a soup bowl and spoon.

In a cheerful voice, the cook started, “I always felt the best thing for influenza was a nice bowl of chicken broth, so I made up a…” She stopped, her eyes falling to the new, clean bandages on Thomas’s wrists. Miss Baxter dropped her hands to her sides, and would have moved to stand in front of Thomas, shielding him from Mrs. Patmore’s view, but she knew it was too late. Thomas looked from Mrs. Patmore to Miss Baxter, a look of desperate humiliation on his face. He looked at his friend as if to silently say, _another one who knows!_

After several seconds of terribly awkward silence, Mrs. Patmore mumbled the obvious by saying, “So it’s not influenza, then.”

Miss Baxter recovered herself, and looked down at Thomas. Regardless of this unexpected development, he was still terribly tired from the exertion of having a bath.

“It’s alright,” she said to him softly. “Let’s get you settled.” She lifted his feet from the floor as he lay down in his bed. She covered him with the sheet, and blanket, and finally the soft blue duvet. She smoothed his hair away from his forehead as he closed his eyes, exhausted.

Then she turned her attention back to the bewildered cook in the doorway. “No, Mrs. Patmore, it’s not,” she said.

“And here’s me standing with a pot full of broth, as though it would help,” Mrs. Patmore fretted. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know I’d be intruding so. I just wanted to help.”

“It’s so very kind of you,” Miss Baxter said, for she welcomed and encouraged any kindness that anyone bestowed on Thomas, especially now. “But honestly, I haven’t been able to get him to take anything other than water and tea for the last three days. I’m not sure he’s ready for soup just yet,” she said.

Miss Baxter was trying to put her off, but this statement seemed to give the cook an idea.

“Really?” she asked. “I wonder if… if I might try, then?”

Miss Baxter looked down at Thomas, who was already asleep. She knew he was exhausted, but he would need to start eating again, and soon. Mrs. Patmore did clearly have a talent for feeding people (though perhaps not literally). And now that she was in on Thomas’ secret, what could it hurt?

“Alright,” Miss Baxter said. “Let’s give it a try.”

The cook smiled. She brought her tray over to the bureau, set it down, and began to ladle steaming broth into the small bowl. As she did this, Miss Baxter leaned over Thomas and rubbed his shoulder.

“Wake up, Thomas,” she said softly. He opened his eyes slightly. “I know you’re tired, but Mrs. Patmore has brought you some broth, and I think you should try some while it’s hot. Come on, darling, let’s sit up.”

Thomas seemed to lack the energy to pull himself up, so Miss Baxter did it for him. Once he was semi-upright, she slipped behind him, resting against the headboard of his bed. He leaned back against her, and she wrapped her arms around him. Mrs. Patmore crossed the room to his bed, and carefully sat down upon it, holding her bowl and spoon.

“Alright, Thomas,” she said. “Try some of this,” and she brought the first spoonful to his mouth. Ever so carefully, she pushed the spoon past his lips and tipped it downward. The two women watched in anticipation to see what he would do.

He swallowed. He did not open his eyes, but whispered, “It’s good.”

Both women sighed with relief and smiled briefly at each other. “Of course it is, love,” Mrs. Patmore said, sounding nearly as cheerful as she had when she first entered the room. “And I made it just for you. Now let’s have some more.”


	4. Every Sweet Name There Is

After their encounter with Mrs. Patmore, Miss Baxter spoon fed him a few more meals, until he decided to try and hold his own teacup, and bring his own spoon to his mouth. She bathed him again on Tuesday, in much the same way she had the first time, but by Thursday he told her he could wash by himself. She was happy to allow it, but insisted on being in the bathroom with him, though facing the wall to give him some privacy. Though this was an odd arrangement (and surely an idea that would make Mr. Carson faint), he told her he didn’t mind her presence. 

“I know some day I’ll have to be more than an arm’s reach away from you,” he had said as he sat in the tub washing. “But I don’t like to think of it yet.”

She smiled though he couldn’t see her face. Imagine Thomas admitting to needing company. 

She walked next to him on the way back to his room, though he no longer needed her to guide him and keep him upright. His strength was returning, at least for short amounts of time. 

When they got back to his room, he sat on the bed, expecting their usual routine. She would wrap his wounds in gauze, then he would change into clean pajamas, and lie down for a short nap while she tidied the room and read. 

She brought two rolls of gauze to his bed and knelt in front of him. She picked up his right wrist in both of her hands, and made to inspect his sutures. She was no medical professional, so was unsure as to what she was looking for, but there was something that made her want to look all the same. 

Where once there were angry black gashes, there was now healing flesh. Had she had a hand in this healing? She certainly hoped so, though suddenly the thought occurred to her that she had not tried to help heal him until he had harmed himself, nearly beyond saving. She felt overwhelmed with guilt, and tears stung her eyes. She brought his wrist to her lips, and placed a penitent kiss there. 

“Oh, Thomas,” she whispered. “I am so sorry.”

He gently pulled away from her. “Don’t,” he said. “You don’t have to.”

She looked up into his eyes. “But I do,” she said. 

“No, please…” he trailed off. “I don’t know how to… No one ever touches me. I mean, not until recently,” he said, looking at the floor.

Another wave of guilt washed over her. She reached up to hold his face in both of her hands. “No, my darling, it won’t be that way any more. I’ll touch you. I will. And the reason that I’m sorry is that I have loved you as long as I’ve known you, and I didn’t show you or tell you until it was almost too late. Please forgive me, dear one. Please let me make it up to you.”

He seemed unable to answer, but gave his assent by leaning into her, until their foreheads were nearly touching. 

“I will touch you,” she said again. “And Mrs. Hughes, and Anna, and Andy. They all care for you. I know it’s not the kind of love you’re looking for—”

“No, it is,” he said, cutting her off. 

“What?” she sniffed, pulling away slightly in confusion.

He sighed. “I’d like to find love. I would. The kind that… Anna has with Mr. Bates, and Mrs. Hughes with Mr. Carson… The kind you have with Mr. Molesley.”

She blushed, and looked away. He continued.

“But I think I need to… back up. I need to learn how to love my friends first.” His voice broke as he began to cry. “I was lucky to have Jimmy. I’m so lucky to have you. But I don’t know how to be a friend yet. I don’t know how to love a friend, or a parent… or a sister.”

She let her hands fall from his cheeks to the back of his neck, keeping her face close to his. She nudged his forehead with her own, so they were eye to eye. “I’ll help you,” she said. “I will always be here for you, whatever happens. And I know you can do it. You do know how to be a friend, because you are sweet, and kind, and loyal, and clever, and brave. You were built for love, my darling. You were made to be held, and loved, and kissed, and called every sweet name there is.”

He buried his face in her shoulder, and cried into the fabric of her dress. She moved one hand down his back, rubbing circles there, while the other hand stayed in his hair. 

She would show him love, now and for as long as he would let her. Perhaps it wasn’t too late. Perhaps what the doctor had said was true—she had found him just in time.


End file.
